


Castaways

by Emachinescat



Category: Hardy Boys - Franklin W. Dixon
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-28
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:34:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emachinescat/pseuds/Emachinescat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank and Joe are supposed to be spending a week with their friends on an island in Barmet Bay, but on their first deep-sea-fishing excursion, the stormy weather says otherwise and they are thrown into a tragic and dangerous mystery on a deserted island.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own the Hardy Boys. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

"I could get used to this," seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy sighed as he lay back on one of the motorboat's long seats. His wavy blonde hair got caught up in the cool breeze and his blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Don't get too used to it," Frank, his eighteen-year-old brother warned, his brown eyes a bit concerned as he scanned the darkening horizon. "We'll be heading back pretty soon—storm's coming."

"What? No way," Chet Morton protested from his spot on the parallel lounge seat to Joe's. "It's been beautiful all day. It's just getting to be dusk, right?"

"Actually, it's only about three PM," Biff Hooper answered, glancing at his watch, then the darkening skies. "Frank's right—a storm's blowing in."

It was summer break in Bayport, Massachusetts. When the boys returned to school in the fall, Chet and Frank would become full time students commuting to Bayport University and Biff and Joe would be Seniors at the local high school. As summer would be over in about two weeks, the four friends had decided to spend one of the remaining weeks at Biff's uncle's cabin right on Barmet Bay. Clyde Hooper was down south visiting an old friend, and he had gladly agreed to let the boys stay at his cabin and gave them full access to his sailboat, scuba gear, and anything they could find in the refrigerator—which was enough to satisfy hefty Chet Morton. The boys had their own motorboat which they had brought along for the trip as well.

It was the beginning of the week—Monday—and the boys were excited at the prospect of an entire week of fishing, snorkeling, swimming, motor-boating, and sailing. To kick off their adventures, they had set off out of the bay in Frank and Joe's motorboat, the  _Sleuth,_  and into the ocean, planning to ride just around the bay, do some deep sea fishing, then head back to the cabin for a fish fry. It seemed, however—to the boys' great disappointment—that their first excursion was to be cut short.

"Man, this sucks!" Joe complained, glaring at the darkening sky as the wind started to pick up more speed. "We only caught one fish—not much of a fish fry!"

Frank smiled indulgently at his "baby brother". The siblings were closer than even most twins and their personalities meshed together perfectly, as well as their abilities, whether they were solving a mystery or just having fun. "Joe, we'll be alright. We'll cook up something else for dinner and maybe take the boat out again tomorrow. We've got all week, you know."

Joe sighed. "I guess you're right." The wind chose that moment to let out a high-pitched wail as it ran pell-mell into the boat with even more intensity than before. Frank felt something wet plop onto his forehead as he looked up into the sky and groaned. "It's raining."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious!" Joe crowed in mock enthusiasm. "Now that you're done being redundant, what say ye we get back to shore?"

"Aye, aye, Cap'n!" Biff grinned at Joe's cheesy pirate imitation.

"Walk the plank, me  _hardies_!" Chet chimed in. He glanced mischievously at his two best friends while Biff looked on, smirking. "Pun most definitely intended."

Both Frank and Joe feigned mortification as Frank began to steer the boat back toward the bay. "We take offense to that!" Joe growled, jumping to his feet and brandishing the only fish the boys had caught like a sword, wrapped in paper that was sopping wet because of the ice it had been placed in. "Now, me Morton," he guffawed, "ye shall walk the plank!"

"Joe, get that slimy thing away from me!" Chet ordered. He loved fish—when they were dead and cooked and served on his plate—but when they were dead and wet and raw and slimy, not so much.

"Guys, cut it out—" Frank began right before an enormous wave towered over the small boat.

"Oh no," Chet squeaked as the boat was tossed violently. Rain was pouring down mercilessly now, the four friends looking like drowned rats. The wind increased to such a volume that they had to shout just to hear each other over the noise.

Frank struggled to keep the boat afloat as he steered it toward the direction of the bay. Visibility rapidly decreased and he looked over his shoulder at his brother and friends. "Guys, hold on," he ordered tersely. "This is going to be a rough ride."

Joe glanced around and saw that the water was almost as black as the skies. From his place in the back of the boat, he saw his brother grappling with the wheel through the thick sheet of rain falling mercilessly down on the boys, his muscles straining. Joe yelled to Chet and Biff, "Hey guys, I'm going to help Frank."

Before they could protest, Joe had vaulted over the back of the front seat and was next to Frank, who was having no luck keeping the boat on course and afloat at the same time. Glancing at Joe, he screamed, "I'm shutting off the motor until the storm passes. We're just wasting gas and we're getting off course anyway."

Joe looked concerned. "Are you sure that's the best thing to do?"

"No," Frank admitted. "But it's all we  _can_  do." He shut off the motor and reached into the footlocker, pulling out four ponchos, intending to hand them to his friends. As he took them out, a giant gush of wind tore them out of his hand and they disappeared under the waves.

Biff laughed from the back of the boat. "They wouldn't do us much good now, anyway," he yelled, considering all of the boys were soaked to the bone.

The storm raged on with increasing strength for about twenty minutes, making seeing anything more than five feet away impossible, before abating the smallest bit. Gradually, visibility increased. All the boys were shivering uncontrollably and hadn't spoken a word for quite some time. Chet was clinging to the side of the boat, his face an alarming shade of green. Biff looked shell-shocked.

At the front of the craft, Frank was trying to clear the water from his eyes and nose and mouth. Spitting out a stream of water, he glanced at his brother. Then gasped in shock. Because his brother wasn't there anymore.

"Joe?" he said, panicked. "Joe?" He twisted around to face the waterlogged Biff and Chet. "Did you guys see Joe do anything during the storm?"

"I couldn't see my own hands," Chet announced, concern etched on his plump face. "But he couldn't very well have gone anywhere. Wasn't he strapped in?"

Frank paled. "No—remember, he came up here to help me. He must not've buckled in—he got washed overboard and we didn't know because we couldn't see or hear anything!" His hands were shaking as he gunned the motor even though it was still raining and the waves were threatening. "Who knows how long he's been gone—we've got to find him!"

Biff put a hand on Frank's shoulder. "Frank, he had his life jacket on and he's a great swimmer. I'm sure he's around here somewhere, floundering around and waiting for someone to pick him up."

"I sure hope so," Frank muttered. For the next forty-five minutes they searched every square inch of surrounding ocean meticulously for the youngest Hardy. They were forced to admit defeat when the gas gage boasted "E" and Joe was still nowhere to be found. Worse still, a thick fog had replaced the rain about thirty minutes into the search and had turned the already lost boys around so they didn't know where they were. Frank sighed as the engine coughed feebly and died. His face was pale and his eyes were sad.

"We were too late," he groaned. "Joe's gone. He's drowned."

Biff and Chet glanced at each other, worry over Joe, the shock Frank was clearly experiencing, and the seriousness of their own predicament making them tremble. "Maybe not," Chet said quietly. "Someone else may have very well came by and saved him. Or he could have swam to land."

Frank managed a wan smile. "Thanks for the thought," he said glumly, a pang of guilt and depression washing over him as the obvious settled in through his shock. His brother was dead.

A tear of grief swam down his face, blended with the raindrops still clinging to his lashes and cheeks, and became lost. "Joe..." he cried out softly.

In the back, Biff turned to Chet. "This is not good," he groaned. "We've lost Joe, Frank's in shock, and the fuel gage says  _E._ And on top of all that, we're lost and stranded in fog."

Chet smiled weakly. "Maybe 'E' means 'extra fuel'," he suggested lamely. Biff gave him a withering look. "Or maybe not," Chet quickly amended.

Frank was sitting at the front of the boat, staring ahead, expressionless.

Even as the fog began to clear away and the distant sound of sea gulls could be heard, he didn't move. When slivers of sunlight met with droplets of rain and sent shafts of colors arching across the sky in a magnificent rainbow, he didn't notice.

Finally, Chet tapped on his shoulder. Frank, lost in his thoughts, jumped. The brown eyes that turned to look at Chet were worn, weary, and grief-filled. Chet almost lost his nerve because he didn't want to interrupt Frank's mourning but pressed on after receiving a sharp nudge in the ribs from Biff. "Erm...Frank? The storm's over. The fog is gone."

"What do you want me to do?" the eighteen-year-old asked in a voice that was almost as hollow as his eyes. "We're way off course, the bay is nowhere in sight, we're out of gas...and Joe is gone." He let out a strangled sob, then took a deep breath and wiped his eyes. "I'm sorry," he blurted to a slightly stunned Chet and Biff. "That was uncalled for." His voice was still pain-filled and bleak but the other boys could sense a hint of purpose behind it now. "There'll be plenty of time to grieve later. We've done all we can do for Joe now. Right now, we need to focus on finding a way to get _us_ back to safety." He paused, a bit of empty hope in his voice, then went on, "Maybe we can contact the Coast Guard...maybe Chet was right...Joe might've been picked up by somebody else...that likes to be out in the ocean in the middle of a raging storm..." he trailed off.

"Regardless, they can launch a search for him...or his..." again he left his sentence unfinished, a pained expression commandeering his lean face for a moment. He turned to Biff and Chet. "Do you guys still have your cell phones on you? I think mine was washed away in the storm."

Biff checked his pockets. "Nope, sorry, Frank." He scowled. "And that was a two-hundred dollar Blackberry Curve Platinum Edition," he groaned.

"Get over it," Chet said, his eyes widening as Biff described his prized phone. "Some of us have crappy phones," he kidded as he pulled out a small, dinky, blue track phone from his pocket. Then he started and looked at the miserable phone as if he were seeing it for the first time. "Oh, wow," he said stiffly. "My phone didn't get washed away."

"That's because it was in your back pocket, Chet," Biff remarked. "With all that weight holding it down, there was nowhere for it to go."

Chet made a face at his friend and Frank entered the light-hearted conversation, bringing the boys back to depressing reality. "Please, Chet...just see if it works."

Chet tried to turn it on. Nothing happened. He frowned. "I think it got waterlogged," he admitted.

Frank tried for good measure but nothing happened. Then he took out the battery and laid it in the sun. "Maybe we can dry it out," he said without much enthusiasm as he lay the phone beside the battery and turned back to face the endless expanse of ocean before him. There was nothing to do but wait, think...and grieve.


	2. Chapter 2

He felt a gentle rocking, back and forth, back and forth, and he wondered if he were two years old again, being rocked to sleep in his mother's arms. But the arms that embraced him weren't warm and soft and comforting. They were cold, wet, and dark. He tried to open his eyes to see why he was being lulled to sleep by an unknown force but he felt himself slipping away as something up above—a seagull perhaps?—began to croon a lovely lullaby and he sunk out of the frigid, deathlike hands that rocked him gently and into the never-ending abyss of darkness calling his name, sleep, sweet sleep.

* * *

"I'm hungry." Chet had stated this simple truth seven times in the last minute, nearly fifty times since Frank had set the plump boy's cell phone out to dry nearly an hour ago.

"We know," Biff sighed, glancing around. The boys had lazily drifted along with the waves. They had no bearing on their location and although they had tried to start the boat several times, they were out of gas—too bad the extra fuel had been lost in the storm as well, Frank had observed nearly half an hour ago.

Biff squinted, staring at a point on the horizon, rubbed his eyes, and stared again. It wasn't a mirage—there was land! For a moment he couldn't say anything in his excitement and he opened his mouth and closed it several times without making sound, accomplishing only the feat of looking like an over-sized guppy.

Frank and Chet stared dumbly at his antics. Chet groaned. "I knew hunger would get to us eventually. I just thought I'd be the first to lose my mind." He paled. "You don't think he's going to try to eat  _us_ , do you?" he asked Frank, his eyes wide.

Biff regained his speech and smacked Chet upside his head. "No, dipstick," he crowed, grinning from ear to ear. "It's not that—there's land over there!"

In a rush of excitement, Frank and Chet turned around and saw the small spot of green coming up on their left. "Come on," Frank shouted. "We've got to find way to get this boat to the island. Hopefully it's inhabited."

"Knowing our luck, it won't be," Chet grimaced.

Biff shook his head. "No, knowing  _his_ luck," he said, jabbing a thumb in Frank's direction, "it will be inhabited, but by a crazy, psychotic, violent hermit." He said this with total seriousness, for the Hardys had encountered several hermits living on islands all by themselves during their adventures solving mysteries, and most of the time, those hermits tended to be rather violent.

"Yeah," Frank agreed. "There were some pretty nutty ones. I remember when we were over near Rockaway and we met that old sailor hermit." He laughed. "I remember, Joe said—" he broke off, grief overcoming his handsome features as he completely changed the subject. "So I'm going to get some rope and we'll tie it to the front of the boat. We'll take turns with one person in front swimming and pulling and another at the back pushing the boat. That way, we'll be able to get the boat to shore."

It seemed like agonizingly grueling work and Chet wasn't afraid to tell Frank so. Frank merely waved him aside with a flick of his wrist and said with sadness in his voice, "Joe and I have done it by ourselves before. With three of us, it should be a breeze."

It wasn't a breeze, but it wasn't overly-difficult, either. By alternating out and taking turns pushing, pulling, and resting in the boat, the boys—with a little help from the wind that was pushing the waves toward the island, helping speed up the process, perhaps as a peace offering for being so disagreeable before—were able to get the boat fifty feet from the sandy beach in a little less than two hours. Frank turned off the motor and tied the boat to a convenient rock jutting out from the surf—almost too convenient but he was too tired to question their good fortune. The boys then swam the last fifty feet and collapsed on the beach, wet, hungry, thirsty, and absolutely exhausted. They dragged themselves up the beach for a few more yards, not wanting to be swept back out to sea by the tides, then lost consciousness, glad to be released from the sadness, worry, hunger, thirst, pain, and guilt, at least for a little while.

* * *

He felt something warm on his back and neck, drawing him slowly back to consciousness. It caressed his shoulders, arms, and neck, gently bringing him around. It kissed his cheek, urging him, insisting that he must completely resurface from the never-ending nightmare of blackness.

But who was this unknown suitor, this beautiful beacon of hope as he tried to wake up? Was she really an angel of mercy or was she a siren waiting only to lift his hopes then drag him back to the depths of the sea? The warmth spread as he gained awareness and his eyes fluttered open.

As his foggy head began to clear, things began to make a bit more sense. He was lying on his stomach on a sandy beach, his face pressed into the golden sand. His shirt and life jacket were still on, but torn, and the arms rocking him earlier had been the waves lapping around him and carrying him to shore. The warmth that had brought him around was the heat from the sun. For a while he lay there, trying to gather up the strength just to roll over. Finally he lurched with all his strength to his left and somehow ended up on his back, staring up at the lovely sun that had probably saved his life, warming him and waking him up. A few gulls floated lazily in the now-clear blue sky.

What had happened? At first he couldn't remember; couldn't remember anything. He panicked, but then through his exhaustion recalled everything he needed to know. He was Joe Hardy, first and foremost. He had been on the  _Sleuth_  with Frank, Chet, and Biff. A big storm had rolled in seemingly out of nowhere and he had jumped up front to help his brother. He realized that when he had gotten into the front of the boat, he had forgotten to strap back in. When the visibility was the worst—the rain was so thick and the sky so dark that one could see nothing unless it was right in front of their face—and the thunder and crashing of waves was so loud, a huge wave had crashed over the boat.

Joe had been sitting there, hoping that the storm would just go away so they could have some fun when he felt the wave smash into him and drag him toward the open sea. He had twisted, tried to grab onto something, anything. His fingers had brushed against the belt he should have had over his lap, then the edge of the boat. All the while he had been yelling at the top of his lungs but no one could hear or see him because of the storm—it was as if he were all alone. He hadn't been able to get a grip on anything and as he was screaming a great bit of seawater had splashed into his open mouth and he had choked. He had been carried along with the wave, washed out of the boat. Since everything was so dark and the waves so big, he hadn't been able to spot the boat at all. He had started swimming in what he thought was the direction of the craft, all the while praying that he wouldn't be struck by lightning. But then another wave had crashed over him with astounding force and he had blacked out.

From what he could figure, he had probably been saved by his life jacket. The vest had kept his head above water as the storm calmed. He had probably been swimming in the wrong direction before and was probably pretty close to the island. He had been washed ashore, gained consciousness for a few moments before passing out again, and had wound up waking up once again and had stayed awake, which brought him to the present. It made sense.

He felt a cold fist of panic grip his stomach. Where was he, though? What had happened to Frank? To Biff and Chet? Had they been able to stay aboard the  _Sleuth_  or had they, too, been tossed out of the boat? Had they found him missing? Had they searched for him? Were they still looking or had they declared him dead? And if they  _had_ returned to the bay and to civilization, had they been able to contact the Coast Guard and get some people out here looking for him?

So many questions with absolutely no answers. Joe forced himself to his knees, ignoring the pounding of his head, then tottered to his feet. For a few moments he wavered there, not sure if he was going to be able to make it without falling flat on his face. He took a few tentative steps without crashing and he felt his head clear up even more. He tore off his life jacket then turned his attention to his physical state.

His shirt was torn and damp—not soaking wet, thanks to the sun—and his shorts were tattered but still served their purpose relatively well. His sandals were gone—big surprise—and he couldn't find his cell phone anywhere. That made him mad because he had just gotten that touch screen iPhone from his brother for his birthday a few weeks ago. He reminded himself that he was lucky to be alive and managed to control his emotions about material things. He had quite a few cuts and bruises but none seemed too serious. The back of his neck was getting sunburned as was the rest of the exposed skin from where he had been laying in the sun for who knows how long. He was hungry and thirsty, sore, cold, and shivering, but he was alive.

For now.

* * *

When Frank woke up, all traces of the storm had vanished. The sun was beginning to set, casting red, gold, and pink hues across the darkening sky. He pushed himself to his feet, discarded his life jacket, and went to wake up Chet and Biff. The other boys groaned and staggered to their feet as well.

"How long have we been out?" Chet asked, glancing up at the gorgeous heavens and the incredible sunset.

"I don't know, let me check my phone," Biff said sarcastically. "Oh, wait, I can't—it got washed away," he mumbled bitterly.

"Phone!" Frank gasped, then took off down the beach to where they had tied down the boat, intending to see if Chet's phone had dried out and was able to be used. When he got to the edge of the water, his frazzled eyes searched the gentle waves desperately until he found the rock that the boat had been tied to. He found the rock...but the boat was gone. "Of course," he groaned.

"The  _Sleuth_ is gone?" Biff said incredulously. "How? There's obviously no one here who could have stolen it."

"No, we were exhausted. I'm guessing when we tied the boat up, we didn't do it right. Sorry, guys—this one is my bad."

"Don't worry about the boat, dude," Chet said gently, walking to the edge of the shore to stand by Frank. He slung a pudgy arm over his friend's shoulder and smiled softly. "It wasn't that useful anyway. At least we made it."

"Well, most of us did," Frank muttered, his eyes misting over and Chet kicked himself mentally for his insensitive behavior. He felt sick to his stomach when he thought about the fact that Joe might very well be dead. He felt tears moisten his own eyes and saw that Biff was crying quietly as well. Now that they were out of peril for the time being, the weight of their loss was profound and heavy.

"What do you say we start a fire?" Frank said softly, breaking the silence. "There's no food right now—"

Chet cut him off and wiped his eyes. "No food? What else do you think I carry in my back pocket—daisies?" He reached behind him and pulled out four rather squished, waterproof baggies of dried noodles and chicken. "Brought these along, just in case. Just add water, heat it over the fire, and ta-da! Dinner!"

Biff and Frank smiled. "I will never again tease you about your eating habits," Biff said as he made a grab for one of the food packets. "Okay, that's a lie," he admitted, grinning, "but I am awfully glad you listened to your stomach today."

Twenty minutes later the boys were huddled near the fringe of trees leading into a tangled forest, a bright fire crackling and illuminating the immediate darkness around them. The boys were eating the chicken soup out of the packets, having used some water bottles Chet had managed to salvage from his large cargo side-pocket to make the food.

"What are we going to do?" Biff moaned. "We haven't seen any signs of life on the island at all. If there is a hermit here, he really, really keeps to himself.

"Chances are, this is a deserted island," Frank said. "But tomorrow we'll explore the forest area just in case. Then we can figure out how to try and get off."

"Maybe we can spell S.O.S. on the beach with branches," Chet offered helpfully.

"Or maybe a big signal fire might be more practical," Biff said.

"We'll worry about that tomorrow," Frank stated, then squeezed his eyes shut, an image of his younger brother etched into his mind.

"I bet he's fine, Frank," Biff said softly, squeezing his friend's shoulder, despite the fact that he held no hope for Joe in his voice.

"I failed him," Frank said quietly. "I promised to always watch out for him on any of our adventures—and this wasn't even supposed to  _be_ a dangerous adventure. But I wasn't watching out for him on the boat and now he's gone forever."

"It's  _not_ your fault," Chet snapped firmly. "You couldn't see or hear anything. None of us could." He paused. "If anything, it's our fault because we let him jump up there with you."

Tears rolled down Frank's ashen face. "Oh, Joe..." he moaned.

Biff stood up and motioned for Chet to hand him the pocket knife that the boy had in his back pocket. Chet handed it over and Biff grabbed a lone piece of wood from around the fire pit. He quickly carved a rough canoe shape out of the wood and fitted a small flaming stick from the fire into the makeshift boat. Frank and Chet, realizing what their friend was doing, jumped to their feet and accompanied him to the edge of the water.

"Joe was an awesome friend," he said softly. "Funny, athletic, great to have on the football team, and he cared about others." He handed the boat to Chet.

"Even though we had a few hardships in our friendship, especially after my sister's death, we were still best friends to the end. And I'm glad that things were beginning to get back to normal," the stocky boy said quietly, then handed the flaming candle-boat to Frank.

"Joe, I love you more than anything—anyone," Frank said softly, his tears almost extinguishing the fire. "I swear, I will not rest until we have located your—your body and you are at rest." He paused. "And if you are still out there somewhere, alive, I will find you, never stop looking for you. I love you so much, baby brother and I'm sorry if I let you down." With the final words, Frank set the boat in the water and the three teary-eyed friends watched as the small boat drifted off into the sea, a beacon of light in the blackness of death.

Frank turned to Biff. "Thanks, man," he said, hugging his pal. "That was a good idea, doing a memorial for Joe."

The boy shrugged. "That's what friends are for."


	3. Chapter 3

Joe had managed to build himself a small fire on the beach. He lay by it through the dark night, weak with hunger, thirst, and exhaustion. He had no food on him or any way to obtain it. In the morning he planned on exploring the rest of the island...

He woke up later in the night to the sound of a quiet motor. He groaned and forced himself up, squinting toward the ocean and into the night. He saw a dark shadow moving toward the beach but there were no lights to guide it. He assumed whoever was driving the boat was trying to be stealthy. Was it Frank, Chet, and Biff? He didn't think so; the motor didn't sound like the  _Sleuth_ 's.

Minutes passed, then the motor ceased and there came the sound of splashing. Joe scrambled up, kicked sand over his feebly sputtering fire, and ducked behind a tree on the fringe of the forest. His detective instincts were kicking in; he had to see what had brought these people to this deserted island in the middle of the night. He heard the grunts of someone heaving something heavy along the sand, labored breathing, and then quiet whispering that carried through the silence of the night easily.

"Man, what luck! I mean, finding that abandoned motorboat in the middle of the ocean. We needed another craft."

"I just wonder what happened to the blokes that owned it," another voice, this one with an English accent, piped up.

Joe's ears pricked. Could they be talking about the  _Sleuth_? He hoped not; that would mean that they had found it floating about in the middle of nowhere, completely deserted. That couldn't mean anything good for his brother and friends.

There was silence for a little longer, then the British man, closer than Joe had expected, spoke up. "Looks like one of the ol' boys has been out here recently—fire pit."

"Well," grunted the American as he shoved something big ahead of him, "Luther told us he was gonna check inventory sometime this month to make sure nobody's been skimmin'. He probably just decided to come out here earlier than planned, that's all."

They moved into the trees, still toting their heavy cargo. Joe, now totally absorbed by this strange turn of events, waited until they were about thirty feet ahead and began to stealthily follow the strangers through the thick foliage. For what seemed like forever, they kept moving toward the center of the island. Joe finally stopped short as he saw the men drop what looked to be a large shipping crate onto the ground. Then they walked a few feet, dropped to their knees, and began to feel around the earth.

Joe moved even closer, trying to see what these men were up to—his gut told him it wasn't good, and his gut was usually right. One of the men found what they were looking for, brushed off the sand and dirt, and found a rusty trapdoor handle. Together the men pulled and heaved the heavy trapdoor open and lowered the crate into it. Then they closed the trapdoor again, wiped their brows, and began to walk off. "Before we leave, I have to take care of some business," the American guy said quickly. "Did you bring your shovel? Something tells me Luther hasn't installed that outhouse yet..." His voice trailed off as the two men disappeared into the trees.

Positive they were gone, Joe crept forward and pulled the trapdoor open. Glancing around cautiously, he lowered himself into a small bunker not unlike the bomb shelters used during World War II in Europe. The underground room was about seven feet deep, one hundred feet long and fifty feet wide. Nearly every square inch of the floor was covered in crates like the one the two guys had deposited earlier.

Joe hurried to the closest one, the one the men had just left, and pried one of the boards up with his fingers. In the dim light from the moon up above he saw that the case was full of bottles of various shapes and sizes, bags, and boxes. When he saw what these containers held, he knew he had stumbled onto something big—and illegal.

Drugs—not just illegal narcotics like cocaine, ecstasy, and LSD, but prescription drugs that must have been stolen from pharmacies' shipments and storage. He stood rooted to the spot as he replaced the slat of wood on the crate and found another already opened, half of the drug content removed. This must have been why that Luther fellow—the head of the drug ring, probably—had wanted to take inventory. Some of his gang members must have been stealing from the stolen hoard of drugs!

Piecing everything he had discovered together, Joe realized that he had stumbled onto a drug ring that must use this island as a cash! The head of the drug ring was probably this Luther fellow. He began to search the bunker meticulously for any sign of clues to the ring's identity, members, headquarters, or anything else that might be useful in a case against them. Caught up in the excitement of the mysterious turn of events, Joe forgot for a moment that he was stranded on a deserted island. Finally, in one of the bottom boxes, he found a scrap of paper that looked like it could have been torn off of an order form of some kind. He pocketed it, hesitated, then stuffed the piece of paper into his still-damp shoe. He then resumed his search.

Not five minutes later, he found another slip of paper, slightly bigger, which held four names: Leon Luther, Harry Brown, Ted Jones, and Melvin Gatsby. Elated by his discovery, he stashed away the paper. He had just found a small door near the rear of the bunker and opened it, revealing a very modern radio transmitter and was about to go and see if it worked when he heard a sound behind him, a stealthy footstep in the early morning twilight. He spun around to find a large blonde man with rippling muscles and a sinister grimace blocking the exit of the bunker. "Melvin, Jones!" he yelled and the two men that had brought the drugs to the island scurried from the woods to find him.

"Mr. Luther!" the British man said quickly. "When did you get here for the inspection?"

"Just now," Luther snapped, then pointed down in the bunker where Joe stood, his muscles tensed, ready for action. He was still very weak from having nothing to eat and from his harrowing adventures at sea, but he was determined to fight with all the strength he had left. "Is this yours?"

"No, sir," the American man stammered. "I didn't know he was here—this place is deserted—I..."

"Maybe it's his boat we found in the ocean," the British man put in helpfully, then proceeded to explain to his boss about how they had discovered the  _Sleuth_ abandoned and taken it.

Luther stood for a moment, mulling over his thoughts, then asked, "Are you the only one here?" When Joe didn't answer, Luther reached into his jacket and pulled out a shiny black pistol. "I said, are you the only one here?"

Joe sighed. "Yes. I'm alone. I was on my boat with my brother and his friends but there was a big storm and I got washed overboard. I have no idea what happened to them, considering your flunkies found our boat abandoned." The seriousness of the situation hit him like a punch to the gut—where _were_ Frank, Chet, and Biff?

Luther considered Joe's words for a moment, then motioned at him with the gun. "Get out of there." Joe hesitated and Luther waved the gun. "Now."

Scowling, Joe jumped up and grabbed the mouth of the trapdoor with his fingertips and, feeling weak and helpless, hoisted himself out of the bunker and sprawled on the forest floor, exhausted from the energy it had taken to complete the task. He felt someone grab his arms and pull him to his feet. He was supported by the two men working for Luther, one on either side, holding his arms.

"What are we going to do with him, boss?" the Brit asked.

"I have an idea," Joe said bravely. "Let me go because I haven't done anything."

"You've seen our hoard," Luther argued.

Joe lied, "What are you talking about? I haven't eaten since yesterday noon and I was hungry. I figured you guys had some grub in your hideout so I was just about to look for it when you showed up."

"Hold him tightly," Luther said, then frisked him. Finding nothing on him, Luther frowned, paced, and ordered, "Take off your socks and shoes."

Joe stared. "What? Why?"

Instead of answering, Luther motioned for his men to shove Joe down, then Luther yanked off his shoes and socks, discovering the list and the order form scraps. "Clever, kid," he said, "but not clever enough." He went into the bunker and returned with a long length of rope, several rags, a bottle of liquid, and a needle. Joe stiffened when he saw the drug in the man's hand but Luther didn't seem to notice.

Instead, he began to tie Joe up. First, he tied the boy's wrists behind his back, so tightly that the rope cut into his skin and he gasped in pain. Then his ankles were bound together and a rag stuffed into his mouth to prevent him from making noise. Finally he picked up the bottle and the needle. Instantly Joe began to struggle violently, wriggling and twisting in his captors' grasp against the ropes that bound him. Luther slapped him across the face, hard, then filled the shot halfway with a clear liquid and inserted it into a vein in Joe's arm. He shoved down the plunger with a wicked smile on his face. Joe became rigid for a moment, his eyes wide and glassy, then he lost consciousness.

* * *

Frank woke up to clear skies early the next morning. Biff and Chet were snoozing on the sand next to him and he quickly nudged them awake. They decided that they would explore the island before doing anything else to determine whether or not it was isolated and to look for anything that might help them get off the island.

They began to march through the thick brush, swatting at flies and mosquitoes. They found an apple tree and ate hungrily. Soon they were on their way again. The island was beautiful, not much different than the islands in and around Barmet Bay which gave the boys a bit of hope—maybe they weren't too far out i the sea. Someone was bound to come by soon.

They walked for over an hour, marking their way by hacking big X's on tree trunks with Chet's knife. Suddenly Chet exclaimed, "Hey, there's a clearing!"

The boys surged forward and soon found themselves on the opposite side of the island, their feet in the sand, staring out at the ocean. Then Biff gasped. Tied to a makeshift dock on the shore were two motorboats, one of them the  _Sleuth_! Suddenly he heard a loud, British voice call out, "Oi! You blokes going somewhere?"

* * *

After giving Joe the drug, Luther had turned to his partners. "That was just something to knock him out," he had grinned. "Now do what you want with him as long as he never sees civilization again. Everything else seems fine so I'm going to get back to our headquarters." He had left the forest and soon the two cronies heard his boat's motor start up and the craft take off through the water.

Melvin Gatsby, the Brit, looked at his partner, Ted Jones. "What do we do with him?"

"Leave him here," Ted responded. "We'll tie him to a tree and he may find a way to free himself eventually...or not. Either way, we'll take off and he'll have no way to get off the island and he can't tell anybody about us."

"Do you think it's best to leave him alive?" Melvin asked warily. "If he does get free and finds a way off the island, we'll get into some big trouble with the boss  _and_ the law."

Ted dismissed his partner's suggestion with a wave of his hand. "Nah. Leaving him alive won't be a problem."

"Why not?"

"He'll be dead within three days from thirst. Trust me, there is no way this kid will leave the island alive."

They had tied the unconscious boy to a tree and, just for spite, tied a rag over his eyes so he couldn't see anything when he woke up. Then they had started for the beach. Someone was already at the boats, though. Three teenagers. The drug dealers realized that the kids must be the brother and friends their prisoner had mentioned. They pulled back into the trees for a quick discussion.

"What do we do?" Ted demanded, looking agitated at the turn of events.

"Relax. They probably think the kid is dead since he was washed overboard. We'll ask them what happened and if their story checks out and they really think the kid is dead, we'll offer them a ride to shore. That way we get them away from our island and they don't know any better. Face it, if we kill all four kids, we'll be in a lot more trouble than we could be in if someone squealed on us right now. And if they already think the kid's dead then we won't even be suspected for killing him. Eh?"

Ted grinned. "Alright, Gatsby, that's a pretty good idea. I'm impressed." They hurried to meet the boys.


	4. Chapter 4

Frank, Biff, and Chet spun around as they heard the unfamiliar British accent call out to them. "That's our boat!" the man continued, stepping out of the shadows of the forest along with another man, this one huge and muscular.

"That's  _our_ boat," Frank snapped, pointing a shaking finger at the  _Sleuth._  The stress piling up on him had really began to do its number. He looked at the men carefully. Something seemed very familiar about their faces, although he was sure he had never seen them face-to-face before...perhaps he had seen them in his father's criminal files. He instantly became suspicious but covered his distrust of the men with ease so as not to alert them.

"Is it?" the bulky, muscular man with brown hair said. "We found it floating around in the ocean, abandoned. We didn't know what had happened to the owners but we figured it had something to do with the storm."

"Yeah, we tied it up to a rock at the other end of the island but when we woke up, it was gone," Chet put in, happy beyond belief at finding someone who could get them back to civilization.

"Must not've tied it up very tightly," the American noted and Biff nodded. "So how'd you wind up here?"

"I could ask you the same question," Frank said, stepping forward, trying to remember where he had seen these guys before.

The men glanced at each other, and it was in that moment, when he saw both of their faces profile that Frank realized who he was talking to. Instantly he held up his hand and said, "Hold that thought." He spun and faced Biff and Chet. "Guys—these two are major drug dealers," he whispered urgently then turned to face the men with a phony smile on his face. "Just a second!" he called out, then turned his whispered attention back to his friends. "Their names are Ted Jones and Melvin Gatsby. I remember seeing them on my dad's file—they must have their storage or something here—meeting them here is not a coincidence. You guys cause a distraction and try to overpower them; tie them up with your belts or something—they're dangerous—and I'm going to go check it out."

"Do you have to sleuth now?" Chet gaped at his friend. "At least wait until we're not on a deserted island and there are...I dunno...police within five hundred miles of us!"

"They might have a radio transmitter or something in their hideout if they have one here," Frank hissed and Chet caught on. Grinning widely he said, "So, fellas, what did you say you were doing here?"

Biff and Frank turned to face them as well. The British man said quickly, "This is a favorite spot of ours. We come here because it's so deserted and tranquil every so often to have a picnic, surf, you name it. The real question is—"

All the time the men had been talking, Frank had been edging toward the trees. When he nodded inconspicuously at Chet and Biff to distract the men, Chet cut off the drug dealers. "Hey, look!" he stammered, pointing off down the beach. "The—thing, it...it fell."

Both men looked at the boy strangely and Frank hurried back to Biff's side and whispered in his ear, "Remind me never to tell Chet to cause a distraction again." Then he said, "Oh, well, I guess it's better this way anyway, three against two is better than you two against them. I'll check it out after we've captured them."

Then he winked at his friends and sucked in a shuddering breath, causing both men to jump and eye him tentatively. He let out a low moan and cried, "Oh, no...I can't breathe...help me..." He flopped lifelessly to the ground, his muscles tensed and ready for action. The criminals just stood there looking at him.

Biff got into character and yelled, "What kind of heartless fiends are you? Do something."

"Why don't you do something?" the American man said, a hint of concern in his eyes. "He's your friend."

"Because...we're frozen with shock...?" Chet answered lamely.

The men looked at each other, shrugged, then chorused, "Makes sense." They rushed forward to help the "dying" teen and Biff and Chet jumped them from behind. Frank jumped up and helped deliver a knockout punch to Ted just as Biff hit Melvin on the head with an iron fist. The boys quickly pulled off their belts and used one to strap the druggies' together then tied their feet with the two remaining belts.

Chet stood up and gasped. Frank and Biff turned to look at him and nearly died laughing. Apparently, the shortage of food on the island had affected the plump boy adversely, making him a bit thinner around the waist. Without his belt, his shorts fell to his ankles in a wad, giving his friends a clear view of his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles boxers.

His face turned red as he yanked up his pants. Then he grinned and said, "Whoops."

"You guys stand watch over these guys," Frank ordered. "I'm going to search the island for their lair."

"Be careful," Biff said solemnly. "There may be more of them."

Frank nodded and headed off into the woods by himself.

* * *

Joe woke up to a pounding head and a surge of panic. He couldn't see, hear, or move. He forced himself to be calm and used his remaining senses to try and figure out where he was and what he was doing there. The last thing he remembered was being tied up by Gatsby, Jones, and Luther and then being injected by some sort of drug. He hoped that it had just been something to knock him out for a while but he couldn't be sure.

Now he realized that he was standing—or, more accurately, leaning—upright against something long and rough—a tree trunk. From what he could tell, his hands were still tied behind his back and his ankles were bound. He was tied upright to a tree and he was gagged and apparently blindfolded. He couldn't hear anything other than his own heavy breathing. He realized that the men had tied him here and left him to starve!

This realization reminded just how hungry and thirsty and weak he already was. He hadn't had water in over a day.  _Three days without water will kill a person._ He silently cursed his brain for dredging up such wonderful trivia at the most inopportune moments. He tried to struggle but quickly discovered that escaping on his own wasn't an option—he was tied too tightly, and anyway, the drug was still working in his system, making him sluggish and he was as weak as a day old kitten from exhaustion, hunger, and lack of water.

He almost wished that Luther had went ahead and shot him. He didn't want to die, but if he had no choice, he'd rather die quickly and have the pain end than slowly feel his life drain away.

But no matter what he wanted, it looked like Luther was getting his way and Joe's death was going to be agonizing. Joe really hated that guy.

* * *

Frank went into the forest cautiously, heeding Biff's warning that there might be another gang member somewhere. He went several hundred feet into the brush. Soon the foliage became so thick that he could barely see the sun through the canopy of green. The silence was eerie and consuming; something alive and foreboding.

For the first time since the accident, Frank was alone. As he stood in the tent of green and glanced around at the beauty of nature, the grief hit him again, harder than it had since Joe had been thrown overboard. He fell to his knees and felt tears on his face. Reality bore down on him like a wolf on its prey. He was never going to see Joe again, never hear his brother's teasing voice or lame jokes, never investigate another crime with him, never be able to just be Joe's brother.

If only he had been paying more attention to Joe on the  _Sleuth_! He could have held onto his brother, kept him safe...Guilt rained down on him, a flood of remorse that nearly made him black out. Joe...

For several moments he knelt there, hands hanging loosely at his sides, head bowed, eyes closed, his whole body quivering like a machine on overload. After many long minutes he forced himself to his feet and went about what he had set out to do in the first place. It just didn't feel right, sleuthing without Joe.  _He_ just didn't feel right without Joe. They were a team. Sure they were two individuals, but they were two individuals whose abilities and strengths and weaknesses meshed together perfectly and made them into something stronger than they could even hope to be by themselves.

He began to search the forest, his head pounding and eyes moist. He had gone a few steps when he thought he heard a muffled sound. He tensed, expecting to be attacked by a drug dealer. But no one leaped from behind a tree or tried to sneak up on him. The sound came again, and this time Frank followed it a little deeper into the brush.

Not knowing what to expect, he rushed forward, muscles tensed and ready to take down whatever enemy lay ahead. Instead, he wound up staring at the one person he had been sure he would never see again.

Joe.

* * *

Biff and Chet smirked at their prisoners who lay bound—and now gagged with strips torn off of Biff's shirt—on the sand.

"We sure fooled you," Chet said. "You really thought Frank was having some sort of 'episode'."

"I have to admit, he's a pretty good actor," Biff said with a teasing grin at Chet. "A lot better than someone else who shall remain unnamed—'Hey, look, the thing, it fell!" he mocked and Chet threw a handful of sand at him.

The boys became serious, ignoring the drug dealers who were glaring angrily at them. "But we still lost Joe," Biff muttered, eyes wet. "It just seems so...unreal."

Chet sniffed. "Things were finally getting a little less strained between us. I think he was finally starting to realize that I don't blame him for Iola's death." Chet's sister and Joe's first true love had been killed in a murderous explosion courtesy of an insane terrorist that meant to kill the Hardy brothers.

"Just think, as bad as we feel, this doesn't even scratch the surface of the torment Frank's going through."

"He'll be missed by a lot of people," Chet remarked, then wiped his eyes and squinted toward the trees. "He's been gone about twenty minutes. Should we go in after him?"

"No," Biff said after a moment of hesitation. "He told us to stand guard over these goons. Besides, I don't think there are any more gang members on the island. But if he doesn't come back in, say, fifteen more minutes, let's go after him."

The boys sat in silence for a few minutes until the quiet afternoon was broken by the sound of a motor. In the distance the boys could see a motorboat headed for the island. "Someone's coming!" Chet exclaimed, struggling to get to his feet without losing his breeches again. Biff followed the suit but with a little less difficulty.

As the boat grew closer, the boys gaped when they saw the person behind the wheel.

The person driving the boat was none other than Tony Prito, a grim-faced Fenton Hardy riding in the seat next to him.


	5. Chapter 5

Joe heard something charging through the trees and stopped screaming for help through his gag. Since he couldn't see a thing, he had to hope and pray that whoever had found him was a good guy. Relief washed over him in buckets of happiness when he heard an astonished, joyful, worried voice that he missed so much.

"Joe!" He felt the gag being pulled gently from his dry mouth and the blindfold removed from his eyes. He flinched at the daylight, hardly daring to believe that Frank was really here, standing right in front of him, rescuing him.

He tried to answer his brother but his mouth and throat were so dry he couldn't even form the words to speak. Frank smiled in relief at his brother and said, "Shhh. Don't strain your voice. You can talk when you're ready." He pulled Chet's pocketknife out and began to sever the ropes that bound his brother motionless to the tree. He then lowered Joe gently to the ground and took a bottle of water from his side pocket, glad that he had insisted that the boys take their waters on their trek to explore the island. He gave the water to Joe, who gulped it down in a rush, gagged, and retched it back onto Frank's shorts.

The older boy wrinkled his nose but didn't react otherwise. Instead he reprimanded his brother, "Slowly—one sip at a time."

Joe nodded weakly and began to take small sips of the water and managed to keep it down this time. Frank said, "I wish I could give you something to eat, but we don't have anything left." Then he looked up at the tree Joe was tied to. It was an apple tree. "Oh," he said. He got the fruit for his brother and after he had eaten most of the meat of the apple, Joe licked his lips and said in a dry, raspy voice, "Drug dealers."

"I know," Frank assured him, stroking his brother's matted, dirty hair gently and pulling his baby brother closer to his side. "Chet and Biff are guarding Ted Jones and Melvin Gatsby on the beach."

Joe looked relieved. Then he rasped, "What about Luther?"

"Who?"

"Leon Luther, the head of the drug ring. He was the one who did this to me, gave me the drug..."

Frank's eyes flashed fire. "Drug?"

"I don't think it was anything harmful or addictive," Joe quickly consoled his brother. "From what I can tell, it was probably something just to knock me out."

Frank managed to calm down enough to inquire, "Luther is on the island?"

Joe's brow furrowed. "I don't know. He was just here to take inventory—" he cut himself off. "Frank, help me get up!"

Frank pushed himself to his feet then pulled Joe up. The boy leaned heavily on his brother but was able to stand. "What's this all about, Joe?" Frank wondered.

"There's a trapdoor about fifty feet from here—it's hard to see because it's covered and camouflaged by the forest floor. But it's got their whole hoard of drugs in it and a radio transmitter—we can call for help!"

Frank's face melted into excitement. "That's great! We have the  _Sleuth_ but she's out of gas and we've got Jones' and Gatsby's craft but I'd rather be able to call for help and have someone trace us here rather than ride around in the ocean all day trying to find out where we should go."

"That's a good plan, using the transmitter," a deep, sinister voice said from behind the brothers. "Too bad there's only one problem with your plan." Leon Luther circled the boys and stood in front of them, shiny black pistol clutched in his beefy hand. "Our transmitter can only be used by people who are alive."

* * *

Fenton Hardy was positively baffled to see Chet Morton and Biff Hooper waving their arms and jumping around like a madman on the deserted island. He was even more shocked when he tied up the boat and saw two of the criminals he was looking for tied to each other, scowling, on the sand. From the looks of it, Tony was surprised too.

The Italian lad leaped out of the boat and onto shore, then jumped on his friends in a big bear hug. "Guys—what the heck are you doing out here? This is supposed to be a deserted island!"

"How did you find us? Were you searching for us?" Chet asked excitedly, ignoring Tony's inquiry.

"No," Fenton stepped in, making a much more dignified approach to his sons' best friends. "We were following a lead. We thought you boys were on your uncle's island in the bay, Biff. And how on earth did you manage to apprehend the two criminals I've been tracking for nearly two weeks now?"

"Frank helped a lot," Chet grinned, recalling his friend's "attack".

"Frank's here? What about Joe?"

The observant detective noticed how Chet and Biff lowered their eyes at this question. "There's a lot you don't know Mr. Hardy," Biff began uneasily. Before he could continue, however, there was a gunshot from the woods. The boys looked at each other fearfully.

"Frank!"

* * *

"That was a warning shot," Luther smiled at the way the boys had jumped at the unsuspected shot aimed right over their heads. "You boys do exactly what I say and you'll get to live a little longer. He waved the gun and ordered the weakened teens to go to the trapdoor. Then he removed a length of rope from his pocket and tied the boys together. He descended into the bunker for a moment then came out with a bottle and a needle.

"You know, drugs like these are okay when they are taken in small doses. "But a dose like I'm about to give you will stop the heart in seconds."

He approached the boys and knelt down next to them. "I knew that something was going on when saw your camp on the other side of the island. It's a good thing I did, because otherwise you may have escaped and lived to tell my dirty little secret." He smirked. "Who wants to go first?"

* * *

Fenton, Biff, and Chet quietly hurried toward the sound of the gun report. Tony had stayed behind to guard the prisoners. In his hands Fenton clutched a deadly handgun, ready for action. When they reached the clearing ahead, they heard voices and stopped, shocked to see  _Joe,_ very much alive but tied to his brother. They hid behind trees as they watched in horror. They had arrived just in time to see Leon Luther plunge a loaded needle into Frank's arm!

* * *

Before Luther could push the plunger of the shot that would release the deadly drug into Frank's body, a shot rang out. The burly man tottered, clutched a hand to his chest, brought it back red, then slumped to the ground, dead.

Frank heaved a sigh of relief as his father, Chet, and Biff hurried to his and Joe's side and quickly removed the needle from his arm and untied the boys. "What happened?" Joe asked quickly as he and Frank were helped to their feet and wrapped in a big embrace by their father and friends.

"Yeah, how'd you guys get a hold of dad?" Frank asked in wonder.

"We didn't," Chet said.

"It's a long story," Fenton said with a sigh. "Let's call the Coast Guard and get ready to go back home. Then we'll exchange stories."

* * *

Nearly four hours later, Biff, Chet, Tony, and Fenton, along with the boys' mother and Aunt Gertrude, and their girlfriends, Callie Shaw and Vanessa Bender, gathered around Frank and Joe's beds at Bayport Hospital. It had taken only a few minutes to contact the Coast Guard using the radio transmitter in the bunker but forever for the officers to arrive, arrest the prisoners, load up Luther's body, and seal the area off for the FBI's investigation of the drug ring. Hopefully, with the lists Joe provided and the fact that Gatsby and Jones were singing like birds since their leader was dead, the FBI would be able to build a solid case against the drug ring.

All of the boat-wrecked teens had been taken to the hospital, but only Frank and Joe had been admitted. Frank, because of the stress on his nerves, the shock, and slight malnutrition, Joe because of severe dehydration, exhaustion, and malnutrition. Now everyone was fed up, fat and happy, and ready to discuss the odd coincidences that led to the strange end to their perilous adventures.

"I've been working on the Luther Drug Ring case for about two weeks now," Fenton explained to the group of people in the room. "I'd chased a lead that took me to an island that was once owned by an eccentric millionaire and abandoned when she died. That's the island you guys were on. It's actually not too far out of the bay, about five miles into the ocean, west of the island you were originally staying at. When I got the lead, I asked Tony here if he could take me out on the  _Napoli_ since the  _Sleuth_ with you guys." He chuckled. "Imagine my surprise when I arrive and not only find Biff and Chet jumping around like lunatics but two of the perps I'm after already trussed up and ready for delivery when I get there." He shook his head, mystified at the turn of events.

"I'm just glad you found us before Luther could push that plunger," Frank sighed after he and Joe finished telling of their adventures with constant additions and revisions by Biff and Chet.

"Me, too," Joe sighed from his bed.

Thirty minutes later, visiting hours were over. The boys sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Frank said, "I am so happy to have you back, Joe. I thought you were dead."

"And I didn't know what had happened to you," Joe scowled. "If it hadn't been for those druggies we probably would've found each other a lot sooner."

Frank chuckled. "What?" Joe demanded.

"Well—it's not really funny, but at the same time it is," the eldest Hardy brother said. "Have you ever noticed that no matter where you are you always manage to find trouble?"

"I don't find trouble; it finds me," Joe protested stubbornly. "And what's your point, anyway?"

"I'm just saying," Frank said, trying to keep a straight face. "It takes a very special kind of person to find a mystery on a deserted island."


End file.
